


Cold Beds and Stormy Skies

by angelwing (orphan_account)



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff without Plot, M/M, that's literally all there is to this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 11:19:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4346624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/angelwing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard liked to believe that it wasn’t some sort of unexamined bigotry that made the current position so awkward. Francis was gay, he knew that. Everyone knew that. And Francis had flirted in the past, made slight, ever so subtle advances that had instantly been dropped the moment he realized Richard was uncomfortable with them.</p><p>He would have felt uncomfortable about this particular situation with anyone, Richard told himself, male or female or anything else.</p><p>------------------</p><p>In the middle of the night during a terrible storm, Richard receives a visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Beds and Stormy Skies

It was a cold, stormy, rainy evening. It had been a beautiful morning - blue skies, green grass, early spring flowers budding in bright pinks and yellows in the fields, the snow had been melted just long enough now that the once dead, yellowed foliage of Hampden had been able to return to brilliant, vibrant colors. No one had believed Henry when he claimed a storm was coming. No one seemed capable of being pulled out of the lush greenery and fresh, surprisingly warm springtime air long enough to want to hear him. In fact, one of Richard’s dorm mates had left a window open all day, claiming that the fresh air was just what the house needed.

That was part of the reason for Richard’s suffering now, for when the clouds came in and the rain began to fall just before dinner, the temperature had taken a drastic drop and with no one to close the window, the house was soon filled with cold air that seemed to wrap around you, clutching you like an icy claw and refusing to let go until you were frozen to the bone. Richard lay in bed, shivering under his blankets, restless, listening to the sound of the rain tapping infuriatingly at the window, a mantra of little drops hitting the glass and sliding down. Wind howled outside and occasionally the world would light up in a flash of lightning, and Richard would momentarily be blinded, his heart lurching in his chest and his breath stopping.

Truthfully, being a Californian boy, he supposed he was not used to this type of weather. No one in California was used to storms of this size. He remembered a time in high school, during his sophomore year, a storm had lasted for an entire day. In the beginning there had been excitement, if not a bit of complaining, but by lunch time he had already begun to hear rumors: Perhaps God had broken his promise to Noah and was destroying the earth again, perhaps the Day of Judgement had come, perhaps the whole town would be flooded and everyone would be forced to leave (of course, the rain had stopped later that night, and in just a week everyone had begun complaining about the dry heat that was typical to California once again).

So sleep was simply not coming. It was probably around midnight now, if not a bit later than that. Richard felt like he had been lying there an eternity. The rain was ceaseless, and it sounded like it was growing louder and harder against the window with absolutely no intention of stopping anytime soon. He wasn’t sure how far away the thunder and lightning actually was but it was becoming more frequent, and even when he closed his eyes he could hear the roar of the thunder and he was certain he could see the flash of lightning even through his eyelids.

It was then that there was a rather loud, hurried knocking at his door.

Richard’s response was one of pure instinct: He didn’t move. There was a feeling, a deep, instinctual fear, most likely acquired through the years spent in a practically rainless California, deep within him that told him that whoever, _whatever_ was knocking was going to hurt him. He cautiously brought his blankets up over his head, covering himself completely, and after a moment he heard the knocking again.

“Richard?” a voice suddenly rang out, quiet and weak and a little desperate sounding. Richard could see a flash of lightning through his blankets. Whoever was at the door let out a terrible little yelp, and suddenly Richard recognized the voice, recognized the knocking, and knew who was at the door. He forced himself to sit up. The blanket slid into his lap and he was hit with icy air.

Shivering just a bit, Richard called out a hoarse, “Francis…?” His voice was sore and he was certain he could see his own breath leave his mouth in a puff of white.

“Richard, p- please, oh please let me in, Richard!” Francis sounded, Richard thought, like a small, lost child. Like a little boy who had lost his mother in the store and was wandering around calling her name.

Admittedly, it was pity more than anything else that caused Richard to get up, walking slowly to the door. Despite the fact that he was in pajamas at the moment, the cold air that filled the room and the lack of blankets to shield him from it made him feel terribly exposed, and he almost felt embarrassed when he opened the door to find Francis standing there, red hair a bit more unkempt than usual and dark eyes wide and huge and filled with what Richard was almost certain were tears.

Too tired to feel much emotion towards anyone but with a hint of worry to his voice, Richard asked, “What’re you doing here, Francis?!” He glanced to the clock; it was one in the morning.

Francis looked around almost wildly, like he was scared of being followed, and Richard noticed his hands fidgeting just a bit at his sides. He stepped into the room then, looked around again, and sat down on the bed. “I’m sorry,” he said at last, and when another lightning bolt flashed in front of the window, he let out a gasp and his body momentarily tensed.

Richard walked over and sat beside him. “What’s going on?” he asked, trying to stay patient. He recognized some of the mannerisms from other times - such as at doctor appointments. Francis absolutely dreaded the doctor’s. He fidgeted restlessly and tried to weasel his way out of absolutely everything he could (Bunny claimed that once Francis had managed to talk his way out of getting an important shot before the beginning of the school year, which had led to the entire school coming down with some ghastly illness, and although Francis had stubbornly denied such a tale Richard could not help but find it perfectly in line with what he was often like).

“It’s just, ah…” Francis shifted uncomfortably. He decided to give his attention to the blanket on Richard’s bed, fumbling with it absentmindedly as he spoke. “I’m afraid I don’t like storms very much, Richard. I don’t want to be at home alone during... tempests like this.” Then, finally, he looked back up at the other boy, and his eyes were huge and pleading. “They scare me, Richard.”

In that moment, Richard wanted nothing else in the world than to have a huge button, or perhaps some sort of switch, that made it capable of turning off all of his emotion, all of his empathy, all of his ability to feel bad for the pathetic, trembling ginger sitting before him. But such a button did not exist, and he found himself feeling a great deal of pity for Francis. He sighed. “What do you want me to do about that, Francis?”

Francis was silent for a moment, taking this question into serious consideration. Richard glanced to the clock and noticed that somehow ten whole minutes had passed since he had first allowed him into his room and, frustrated by the lack of response, added, “Can’t you go somewhere else? Charles and Camilla’s place? I’m sure they’d love to-”

“No, they wouldn’t.” Francis said gloomily, shaking his head, seemingly unaware of his interruption. “You wouldn’t believe this, but the twins love storms. It’s _invigorating_ , they say.” He said the word with such disgust and contempt that Richard took a step back. “They don’t want me there, acting like it’s the worst thing God ever decided to curse the planet with.”

“What about Henry’s? Or Bunny’s?” Even as Richard suggested it, he knew it was no use. No one wanted to be around Bunny at the moment. He was more or less on a rampage, treating everyone terribly, and he didn’t even want to imagine what would happen if the very-not-heterosexual Francis showed up late at night asking for someone to spend the night with. And although there was something very, oddly funny about the prospect of Francis spending the night with Henry (in a completely platonic sense), he understood Francis’ hesitation to do so. Henry might have even sent him home.

Francis seemed aware that Richard was aware that his own suggestions were no good, for he did not even address them. Instead, he fumbled in his pocket for a moment for a cigarette and, hands shaking almost too much for him to light it, said distractedly, “I don’t want to spend the night alone, Richard. I don’t know if I’d be able to take it. The storm's just about driven me mad and I fear I’m going to burst any minute.”

 _More like burst into tears,_ thought a very tired Richard, as he listened to the way Francis’ voice was beginning to quiver as he spoke.

xxx

As Richard lay down at a reasonable distance apart from Francis in his own bed in his own dorm room at one thirty in the morning, he told himself that he whatever divine being kept track of one’s good deeds better be giving him a gold star right now. Francis seemed absolutely elated that Richard was cooperating. He was on the right side of the bed, facing Richard, in the darkness it was hard to see his expression but Richard could practically feel the gaze of his large, dark eyes on him.

“Go to sleep, Francis.” Richard mumbled, and his tone, although he had intended for it to be sleepy, came out surprisingly bitter. He had been facing Francis, but now he turned over, away from him. The bed was not very large, and just a bit of movement would cause them to touch, which was something Richard desperately did not want to happen. The less aware he was of Francis’ presence, the better.

A boom of thunder and a crack of lightning. Silence. For a glorious moment, Richard thought Francis had taken his advice (or rather, followed his order) and fallen asleep.

Then a little sigh came from the other side of the bed, and it took all of Richard’s strength not to groan aloud. “Richard,” Francis began carefully. Richard jumped when he felt a hand, fingers long and slender and touch gentle, rest on his shoulder. “Are you upset with me?”

Richard drew in a deep, agitated breath, and did not respond. Perhaps, he thought, if Francis thought he was sleeping, he would not bother him any longer.

This was the wrong thing to do. Francis tried again, and there was a sort of panicky edge to his voice. “Richard, please, don’t- don’t be upset with me. I don’t want you to be upset with me.” His voice was just above a whisper, and it was soft and sad and fearful. Richard let out a defeated huff and rolled over to face Francis.

If he had moved any closer their noses would be touching.

Francis let out a funny little whimper of a sound. Richard wasn’t sure what it was supposed to be until lightning flashed again, briefly illuminating the room and washing it with electric brightness, and he could see something fall from Francis’ eyes. He was crying, and trying desperately not to show it.

Richard closed his eyes. Somehow, Francis’ presence had made him tired, and he suddenly felt more capable of sleeping than he had been all night, and he wished for nothing more than to fall asleep right there. But Francis was crying, and staring at him expectantly, and Richard knew he had to say something before drifting off.

“I’m not mad,” he finally said, words blunt and still a little bitter, forcing himself to open his eyes again.

“You’re not telling the truth,” Francis said at once, and his eyes went even wider, and his brow furrowed, and he looked very much like he was about to have a panic attack. His shivering was making the bed shake a little.

Richard shook his head. “I’m serious, Francis. I’m not mad. Just tired. Okay?” There had to be a way to get Francis to sleep. Hesitant, he tried, “D’you… need anything, Francis?”

Francis shook his head. “No, I’m alright.” he promised. He reached up and wiped his own eyes with the back of his hand, and a little, almost embarrassed chuckle left him. “I’m sorry.” He sighed. “I suppose this bed isn’t really big enough for two people.” As if to prove some sort of point, he moved forward just a bit, and suddenly their noses really _were_ touching, and Richard could feel Francis’ breath (it smelled of cigarettes and peppermint tea) warm against his face, and their bodies were pressed close together.

Richard liked to believe that it wasn’t some sort of unexamined bigotry that made the current position so awkward. Francis was gay, he knew that. Everyone knew that. And Francis _had_ flirted in the past, made slight, ever so subtle advances that had instantly been dropped the moment he realized Richard was uncomfortable with them. 

He would have felt uncomfortable about this particular situation with anyone, Richard told himself, male or female or anything else.

“F- Francis,” Richard was glad it was so cold, because it gave him an excuse to stutter. “C- C’mon, Francis, move over a bit.”

Francis didn’t respond with much but a little mumble, but he did move. But not enough. His face was no longer against Richard’s, and Richard was grateful for that, but his body was still close. Close enough that Richard could feel the heat of it, could feel him pressing just a bit against him. It was still close, much too close, and Richard tried again to tell him to move.

This time, no response came at all. No mumble, no shifting. He didn’t even open his eyes. It became obvious to Richard that Francis had fallen asleep. Richard stared at the other for a long time then. It was too dark to make out much, but he looked, given the rather eventful night, rather calm and peaceful. His face was expressionless and his eyelashes rested gently on his cheeks. One of his hands, Richard noticed, was clenched into an anxiety-induced fist, and he awkwardly reached for it. He took the hand in his own, paused only briefly to appreciate the warmth of touching another person, and gently undid the fist, allowing the slender fingers to relax and leaving his hand resting peacefully in his own. It seemed to radiate with warmth in contrast to the cold of his current surroundings.

At this point, Richard found himself too tired to care much about any of his previous worries, and he let himself be drawn closer to Francis, much in the way that moths are drawn to a light that will eventually kill them if they come to close, he thought (he also, later, thought that this was a silly and a bit over the top comparison, as touching Francis certainly did not bring about death). Their bodies pressed together still did not generate enough warmth for him to be comfortable, but it was certainly better than the raw cold that had come with sleeping alone.

Francis was just a bit taller than him, and his body was slender and almost even delicate. He was dressed in soft cotton pajamas. Cuddling (if awkwardly pressing into someone in an attempt to steal their body heat could really be called that) with him was not particularly unpleasant, and the soft rise and fall of his chest created a steady, calm rhythm that quickly put Richard to sleep.

The next day, Richard would discover from an array of students that the storm had ended at two, which meant he could easily have forced Francis to go home and only an hour later he would have been able to sleep by himself without an issue. But for reasons he himself never bothered to dwell on and admittedly could not completely figure out, he found himself unable to completely regret the now-clearly-even-more-useless-than-previously-imagined late night visit.

Deep down, he supposed part of him was glad Francis had been with him. It had been pleasant, and although he hated to admit it, even to himself, there had been something oddly comforting about waking up and finding himself beside the pretty boy and his pretty red hair.

-end

**Author's Note:**

> This was mostly a present for my best friend Jace (edit as of October 1, 2015 we're dating now!!!). They had a kind of off day today that ended with a bad storm so I spent about two hours typing up a quick fluffy story about these two. I JUST finished this book this morning and I absolutely love Francis so so so much, and he and Richard are just absolutely the cutest things ever.
> 
> If I made some terrible mistake as far as the characters go I'm really sorry..!! I had loads of fun writing this though. Tomorrow when it isn't nearly 2 in the morning I'll go through and check for any huge errors I might've made spelling and grammar-wise (I had a friend read this before I uploaded it but who knows it can be hard to catch mistakes heh).
> 
> Enjoy!! I'd love to know what you think xx


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